


Sentiment

by Wiarda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, F/M, M/M, Platonic Romance, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiarda/pseuds/Wiarda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three years, Sherlock finally returns -- but his return doesn't exactly go the way he wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote on my holiday in France. Un-beta'd. Not britpicked either. All mistakes are mine. Please let me know if you see one (you probably will).  
> By the way, if anyone is interested; this is mildly inspired by 'Hurt', from Christina Aguilera. Perhaps it's nice to listen to while reading. Perhaps it isn't, I guess it's up to you.

Usually, Sherlock wasn't the man for alcohol. He preferred drugs to turn his mind off for a few heavenly moments, but if that wasn't available, liquid would do. Like now; Mycroft had barely given him his glass of whiskey, when he asked for a refill. His brother usually frowned upon those addictive habits, but this time he did what Sherlock wanted without saying a word.

“How?” asked the younger Holmes brother after a while. His glass was shaking in his hand. “How did this happen? I told you to keep an eye on him, I told you to keep him safe!”

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his jaw; a sign that he preferred not to talk about this. Yet, he knew Sherlock had the right to know. “One cannot control the dog once it has found a scent to track, dear brother.”

A large swig was taken from the shaking glass. “Don't talk in riddles.”

“Fine then. After your disappearance, Doctor Watson seemed to cope quite well. Better than I expected him to, in fact. After the first period of mourning, he started dating women again; it was strangely amusing to see how his girlfriends stayed a lot longer with him since your death. One year passed before he married Mary Morstan, a clever young lady that apparently prickled John's interest enough to settle down with her. I believe it was love at first sight.”

The whiskey was bottomed quicker than before. Sherlock put the glass down with more force than intended; his brother nearly gave a violent jump. Mycroft loved those glasses.

“Skip that, the part with the wife,” he said sharply. “I don't want to hear it.”

“Since it's a crucial part in the story you wished to hear, you will have to,” Mycroft bit back. “He married Mary Morstan and lived a perfectly safe, normal life. Or actually, that was what they let people believe. Mary isn't exactly the usual type of woman John used to go for; not only does she know how to handle a gun better than our ex-soldier did, but with her profession, that knowledge is absolutely crucial. Mary Morstan is one of Britain's few well-trained female assassins.”

Mycroft took a pause to take a look at his brother, but Sherlock's face was completely unreadable, just like his voice when he said; “He knew this, of course.”

“Naturally. In fact, it was one of the main reasons he decided to go on his knees for her. He was addicted to it, Sherlock. Ever since he came back from the battlefield, John Watson was addicted to the thrill of danger. It was an addiction you fed for all those years, you kept it alive. So, logically, he needed a replacement after your disappearance. Morstan came as a godsend.”

Sherlock had refilled his glass, but he seemed too caught up in his brother's story to drink until his senses were numb. Mycroft nearly smiled.

“He started to avoid my eye. Mary removed the cameras inside their flat as soon as she found out where I put them, she taught John how to avoid the CCTV-cameras the best as possible and I started to lose sight on the two of them. It would have been a lot easier if John hadn't cooperated like this.”

“I don't understand. Why would he do that? It is so unlike him to follow instructions like a personal assistant. What did this Mary do to him that turned him into a male Anthea?”

Mycroft let out a cold laugh. “Isn't it obvious, Sherlock? She gave him exactly what he wanted in return; a dangerous life. Quite alike the life he had with you, with the one big difference that they were romantically involved.”

Sherlock quickly took his forgotten glass and drank until he started to feel dizzy. “Just tell me how it happened and stop boring me with John's love life,” he said, with a slight slur in his speech.

Mycroft stood up and carefully put the whiskey away, before things would get out of hand. “Very well. Mary was employed by one of the greatest criminals since Moriarty. Sebastian Moran has in fact been his right hand and was one of the snipers at both the pool incident and during your fall. As soon as he found out who Mary's new husband was, he told her what you already know; if you appeared to be alive, Watson had to die.”

You could almost pinpoint the moment when Sherlock figured it out. The frustrated frown fell from his face when the puzzle pieces finally fell into the right place, but his expression was far from peaceful. “I killed Moran a month ago. I wasn't exactly careful when I did that; I assumed he was the last. He wasn't.”

“He wasn't indeed,” confirmed Mycroft in a distant tone. “They found out about your existence shortly after Moran's body was found. I am not certain if Mary was the one to kill her husband in return, though; the bullet that was found in the body doesn't match any of the guns that were found inside the flat. Mary has fled the country; we're still searching for her.”

Mycroft expected a reaction from his brother, but he seemed to be completely distracted. His eyes were wide and focussed on the now empty glass in his hand, as he muttered a few words under his breath that were too soft for Mycroft to hear. After a silence that seemed to last forever, he stood up (slightly too fast, he had to grip the chair to regain his balance) and turned around. “I have to go.”

“Have to go where?”

“That's none of your business. Ciao.” He managed to turn it into a sort of joke, pure as an attempt to irritate his brother, but the enthusiasm was lacking. Mycroft only nodded, careful that he didn't let his concern hover through.

*

John's grave wasn't difficult to find. It was the only one that was still covered with postcards, flowers and, for some odd reason, scented candles, among all those lifeless and dull graves. Although Sherlock had the urge to light the candles (he had his cigarette lighter always in his pocket, since he'd started smoking again after the Fall), he decided that that would be quite a waste. Besides, these were John's candles, not his. 

His headstone was different from Sherlock's. The date of his birth and his death were written on it, just like a short text that Sherlock read often on headstones; 'We say goodbye to our beloved son, brother, husband and friend...' with his name written underneath it, in bigger and nicer letters. It was quite beautiful for a headstone.

Sherlock never hated an inanimate object more. He wanted to kick it, he wanted to destroy it and burn the remains. This was not the way it should be. John should be alive and happy – hell, Sherlock would even have preferred him to be downright depressed, as long as he could talk to him, look at him after all those years. Wasted years.

Despite his anger and pain, a part of him was touched that John's grave was directly next to his own. It was almost as if they were holding hands, six feet under. It was in all respects ridiculous of course, since dead men couldn't move and Sherlock wasn't even in his buried, but the idea was nice. It almost made him think that he hadn't lost John completely.

He didn't talk. He'd heard the little speech John'd given him after his death, but he couldn't form the right words to do the same thing. Besides; what was the point in talking to dead men? There was no one to listen to him. 

For the first time in years, Sherlock had to agree with his brother. Caring is not an advantage. At this point, he was prepared to believe it'd been a mistake to let John come so close, that it'd been the wrong choice to open up to him. If he hadn't grown fond of him, the pain in his chest wouldn't have been this bad. He was alone. Again.

*

Seven months later, Mary Morstan was found dead in a small town in Russia. Although she would never be able to be locked up for it, there was enough evidence found to prove that she had, in fact, killed her husband. Mycroft had waited for that news, but now that he heard it, he was only disappointed that they hadn't found her earlier. Not only would she have been able to be punished for her deeds, but Sherlock would have known the truth.

At least he was happy now. Mycroft hoped he was. There'd been a lot of fuzz in London when Sherlock's grave had to be opened to rebury its owner for real, but Mycroft insisted that it was the same grave, right next to Doctor Watson's. Although he hadn't always been sure of what his brother wanted, it felt like he'd made the right choice by doing that. This wasn't exactly the way it was supposed to be, but at least they rested together. As they should.


End file.
